


Stuck Behind

by bathandbodyworks



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Past Relationships, Sexual Content, dick get ur act together, nightwing 93
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 09:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16216064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bathandbodyworks/pseuds/bathandbodyworks
Summary: In which Dick can’t seem to say “no” to sex, and it all just builds until it breaks.





	Stuck Behind

It started when he was fifteen. His first girlfriend that wanted to do more than pecks on the cheek and hugs and hand holding between classes. 

She’d gone farther before, even if he hadn’t. He still wasn’t even sure if what he felt in his gut was love or apprehension or fear or want or just plain old desperation, but he wasn’t about to say any of that out loud. A reputation was a hard thing to build, and easy to lose.

She guided his hands and led him through everything, and she was kind and helpful and understanding, even if he wasn’t quite into it. He didn’t tell her that, of course, or even let her think of that somehow being a possibility. 

It wasn’t a bad experience, as dark and wet and confusing as it was, so he dealt. They did it a couple of times, until she moved away, and they broke up, and life went on. Until it didn’t, but he never liked to think about that much. 

%%%

Barbara was always a special kind of person. Confident and cool, smart and direct, beautiful and kind. She was the type of person he needed, and the type of person he struggled to let go of. 

She never pushed. She didn’t ask, or question, just waited for him to initiate, until she didn’t, and she was never wrong for it, and he was never one for saying “no” until everyone knew it was too late. 

He didn’t know if he wanted it. What’s that feeling again? Pain or sadness, pleasure or nausea? He can’t tell. It all feels the same when someone’s hands are on him, but he’ll never, ever say “no.” 

And he’ll never, ever let them think he doesn’t want it.

%%%

Jacob was… 

a mistake. 

He didn’t mean to meet him. But it was a rough patch in his life, if he was being honest, with everything going on in his vigilante life and new-to-police life and prove-that-I-can-do-my-own-thing life. 

He can’t say that he was ever the kind of person that could do it and go. He needed a strong bond first, and he needed a strong bond after. 

Jacob didn’t want that. Jacob liked going once and moving on. The thrill of finding someone and going straight to the next one was what Jacob liked. Jacob showed him how Jacob did it, and Jacob moved his hands where Jacob wanted them, and Jacob pushed inside and he let Jacob, cause he can’t, he can’t say no, not to Bruce, not to Jacob, not to himself. 

And he laid in bed afterwards, when Jacob had gone and moved on to the next hot piece of ass, and he listened as the one word he can’t say repeated slowly in his head, and he didn’t cry. He didn’t. 

%%%

He doesn’t think he’s gay; he doesn’t think he’s straight either. He doesn’t really know. He’s pretty sure he likes people. The feeling is there, some sort of feeling he can’t quite place with the words that float around his mind. Maybe it’s some form of hope or anxiety or anger or joy. He still can’t tell. It’s been years and years and he doesn’t quite know. He probably never will. 

Bella tried to let him know. Bella tried to tell him it was love he was feeling, but he’s not quite sure. It felt different than the rising ache for his parents or (maybe) Bruce, so he doesn’t quite agree. 

Bella gripped his hands, and whispered what she was gonna do in his ear, and he smiled, cause he knew she would like that, and they didn’t quite do everything she said, but he figures it okay. But Bella will never know that he has to try so hard to whisper things back to her. She’ll never know why he has to try so hard. Bella will never know why because she can’t know what he doesn’t want her to know. He’s much too good of an actor.

Bella will never know that he’s a fake, stupid man with a fake, stupid heart and a fake, stupid feeling in the pit of his stomach he can’t quite place or ever tell “no.”

No one will ever know. 

%%%

He knows that Kori is amazing, and a fantastic girlfriend, and someone he thinks he could probably spend every day of the rest of his life with. But, Kori does things differently. She’s bigger than he is, and sometimes it’s weird to figure things out from that angle, but Kori likes it. She likes the strangeness of it, and maybe that’s just the alien in her. 

But Kori also likes the pain, not enough to actually hurt either of them, of course, but she likes it. She likes it when Dick makes noises, so he groans and moans and bites and hits and pounds harder than he ever has before, and that cold, tender, hateful, peaceful feeling in his gut builds and builds and builds until he can barely breathe, but he doesn’t stop till she’s done and done and done, because he can’t, why can’t he just, he just wants to say “no.” 

%%%

He’s crouched on the ground, his back to the wall, his boyfriend sleeping peacefully in his bed. He can’t stop seeing stars in his vision, he’s so upset and so happy and so irritated and so hurt and so amused that he can’t take it anymore and he just wants to rip his hair from his skin until there’s nothing left of the pathetic person silently sobbing on a cold, lightly-stained, hardwood floor. 

He just wants the love and touches and the hugs and the kisses, he thinks. He just wants the intimacy of going farther, of delving into a person and experiencing it all, he thinks. 

Does he like sex? Does he not like sex? Does it feel good? Does it feel bad? Is everyone else like him, not sure how they feel about it and playing into the part because absolutely everyone else is playing into the part? 

He digs the heel of his hands into his eyes, and ignores the warmth, cause he’s not crying, he’s not. 

But ever since he was fifteen, all he can ever feel is hands and breaths, and hands and stickiness, and hands and lips, and hands and hands and hands and he can’t take it anymore. He can’t. But he knows he will, because he will never let anyone know that he can’t say “no,” not when all they want is his love. 

%%%

Jessie wants him, and it’s all he knows. 

She always wants, and he gives and he gives and he gives even when he doesn’t ever take, and he’s already given every piece of his soul to the fearless women on top of him. 

She would stop, if he could say it. If he could spit out one syllable, two letters, just one, tiny breath. 

He splashes freezing water onto his face, and maybe that will fix what 7 years of sex he doesn’t know whether he wanted or not has caused. 

The water doesn’t change a thing, and his eyes are still red-rimmed and blue, but he plasters on a smile as he leaves the bathroom, and kisses Jessie’s lips as she gently pushes him onto his bed. 

%%%

He’s not a whore. He’s not a slut. He’s not. 

He doesn’t know where the rumors came from. He’s had sex with what, eight different people in twenty four years of life?

That’s not a lot. He knows it’s not. But he hears them call him those names anyways, like it’s all he is, and he doesn’t tell them to stop, even though he knows he should, and if his girlfriend was with him right now she’d probably kiss his hand, and he’d probably like that, except he’d probably also start crying because he doesn’t know if he can take it anymore. 

Someone touches his ass, and he turns around, and he can’t tell who it is. The feeling in his stomach is still there, and it clenches with disgust and joy and hate and warmth and a million other things he still doesn’t know the name of, and he wonders why he keeps looking for love when he knows he’ll never find it. 

%%%

 

 

 

_He can’t, he can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t, he can’t move, why can’t he, why is she, why is she on him, he can’t, he can’t-_

He can’t find the right words. All he can can think about is poison and Blockbuster and blood and Bruce and death and how much of failure he is, and he’s stumbling around with deep red blood on his hands, his uniform, and it must be inside of him for it to make him feel this way, this empty and hopeless and despaired. 

There’s rain on his back, and a concentrated pounding in his head and in his ears, and everything is hard to see with the tinge of red in his eyes and the constant shaking of his body. 

He knows Catalina must still be downstairs, covered in that deep red blood, still holding the smoking gun, a determined look on her face as she-

and he’s feeling hands and breaths and they feel so bad against him, and he’s so used to that feeling that he almost forgets they’re not real until he looks up and sees her face, Catalina’s masked face, absent of the deep red blood. 

He doesn’t know what’s going on. He can’t focus; everything is too slow and too fast all at the same time and it just makes him nauseous and tired and it kills him to not know what’s going on right in front of him.

Her face changes, her nose twitching and her mouth lifting just a fraction of an inch. But it’s enough for him to shake his head _because he knows, he knows what that means._

He takes a deep breath in, except it feels more like a shudder in his aching chest, and she’s pushing him down. 

The clenching ache in his stomach makes itself known as his lower back touches the roof, and for once in his goddamn life he knows what that feeling is, and it’s a horrible, twisting, gut wrenching sensation of numbness and denial and guilt and powerlessness and shame all at the same time and he would vomit if it wouldn’t get all over her. 

He feels her sensually and slowly deactivate his suit sensors and start to slowly peel it off of him, and he can’t- he can’t do this, not anymore, not when he knows he doesn’t want it, when this might be what actually kills him. 

He can’t move, and somewhere far away he knows it’s probably shock, and his head is sick right now and it’s not his fault, but it’s so far away he can barely hear it. 

He can’t say “no,” he can’t no matter how desperately he wants and needs to, and he’s not crying yet but he knows he will; maybe not while it’s happening, but maybe for the rest of his life when she’s done. 

Something builds in his throat, and he stutters when he tells her to stop, tells her that he’s poison, tells her not to touch him. 

It should work. No one stopped before when he didn’t say anything, so she should stop when he tells her not to go on. She has to. She has to. She has to. She has to or he’s going to-

She shushes him with her lips as he shakes with the pain of murdering a man and knowing he’s never going to be okay. 

She’s whispering things into his ear, but he’s too caught up in his own head (and he’s so selfish isn’t he, can’t even focus on what’s right in front of him) to know what she’s saying. 

He watches with dead eyes as her clothes fall off of her, her suit clanging as it hits the roof. 

And she’s moving on him, and it’s raining, and he’s not looking at her, just at the little puddle beside his ear. 

Distantly he hears panting and moaning and he feels water warmer than the rain drip out of his mask and down his face, and he still doesn’t look at her as she carefully takes his mask off his face and flings it on top of his suit, and he’s barely moving and he’s making her feel good, so maybe he is just a slut and a whore. 

It only hurts when she finishes, and he shakes even harder, and she doesn’t bother putting his suit back on him, just gets her self dressed again and leaves him silently crying on the roof. 

He doesn’t move, can’t move, and physically he only hurts a little, but mentally he’s burning and he’s going to die like this. 

He doesn’t listen as voices yell in an alley below over something small. He doesn’t watch as the stars slowly fade from the sky until the light is burning his face, and he curls over onto his side to shy away from the brightness.

He opens his eyes, staring at his hands as his fingers clench and unclench. They’re not coated deep red blood, and they’re no longer sanguine, more of the light pink he’s come to associate with skin. 

There’s more voices around him, and if he doesn’t move now, someone’s going to see him. 

His suit is still pooled right below his waist, and his hair is soaked through even though it’s barely raining anymore. 

He can’t breathe with everything, and it’s automatic how he zips his suit back up with shaking hands and gently places his mask over his eyes. 

Only one word reverberates around his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to leave comments and/or kudos!!!
> 
> Side note: I do know how to use commas, but they’re used in an attempt to create a slightly overwhelming feeling, if that makes sense.


End file.
